


Witness

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Short & Sweet, Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-14
Updated: 2018-05-14
Packaged: 2019-05-06 19:23:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14654493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: There are things Greg Lestrade sees that no one else has the honor of witnessing. They love each other so much, these boys...





	Witness

Greg sees things most people never get to witness. It’s the payback of his peculiar life. Yes—he sees Sherlock Holmes in his jammies and robe, sprawled in his chair at 221B Baker Street, dragging the bow across the strings of his fiddle, a long-necked bottle of IPA on the floor in easy reach. He gets to see John Watson changing nappies. He has seen Mrs. Hudson in a mini-skirt, and lived to tell the tale. He’s sat in on Molly’s autopsy work, butt hitched high on one of the eternal metal chests of drawers, a cup of coffee cradled between his palms, watching her patiently weigh out viscera, an organ at a time.

All that alone would be payment for a life lived between worlds—between copper and detective and spy. A fluid personality flowing liquidly between roles and obligations. But there are other sights, more rare and costly than the spices of the Indies, more hard-won than moon-dust, or unicorn tail, or phoenix feathers. Precious to him, if to no one else.

He has seen Mycroft Holmes in a dead-run, his neat Crombie tossed recklessly aside to allow him to open up that bean-pole body. He’s seen him take a leap of faith, one long foot rising high to catch the runner of a helicopter even as the monster takes to the air. A hand grabs a support bar, and Mycroft levers in to safety, while the chopper soars high, higher, highest—but Mycroft made the meeting, and the Free World was saved once more by a “quiet little man with a desk job over at Whitehall.”

He’s seen Mycroft the times it hasn’t worked—Mycroft tired and beaten. It’s then you realize the man’s shoulders are actually quite slight, and narrow—too frail to carry the weight of the world. He’s seen the man’s face crumple, fighting back despair and guilt and regret. He’s been the one to place his hand over Mycroft’s brandy snifter, denying him another drink, standing between him and alcoholic oblivion.

“You’re a terrible mother hen,” Mycroft had murmured.

“Takes one to know one.”

“Ah—but that’s entirely different. When I’m a mother hen, it’s necessary.” But Mycroft, looking up into Greg’s eyes, smiled—just a little. Just enough to admit that, perhaps—just perhaps—Greg’s nurture is as valid and necessary as his own.

He’s seen Mycroft let the walls fall, seen him put aside the dignity and presence that is second only to his brilliance in controlling much of the British government. He’s seen the man giggling at black-and-white rom coms from the 30s, jacket and weskit tossed aside, in only his trousers and shirtsleeves.

Once, just once, he has looked up in shattered pain and awe as Mycroft Holmes stood over him, body tense, arms and shoulders bated like a hawk with prey, mantling over what was his. He’d held a deadly little gun, small enough to hide up one sleeve, and he’d spoken with a voice of deadly intent as he warned a former KGB agent away from Greg.

“Mine,” he’d said. “Touch him and you die.”

Later, as the shock had worn away and their hearts had begun to heal, Greg had teased him with it, echoing the tones of Mandy Patinkin in The Princess Bride. “Mine,” he growled back at Mycroft. “Touch him and you die.” He’d laughed, shaking his head, overwhelmed by the grandiose proclamation. “Inigo Montoya—to the T. Perfect.”

Mycroft sniffed. “I was not about to let that thug rob England of one of her finest.”

“I don’t think you said I was England’s. Not then. Not that night.”

Mycroft had looked away, flushing, his silly beak of a nose pink at the tip. “Let us just say I owed you duty of care.”

Greg had risen, then, and moved across Mycroft’s office rug, quiet and calm. He’d gone around the front of Mycroft’s desk and hitched his hip on the edge, holding out one hand in an open gesture of invitation. “Not yours?”

Mycroft had looked side-eyed at the hand, waiting, open. He’d ducked his head, and said, voice shivering, “They nearly killed you, Inspector.” And in his tones was fear. “I do not think I could have endured the loss.”

“Yours, then?” Greg let his hand continue as it was, waiting.

Mycroft’s lashes hid his eyes, and he looked down at his toes. “I am not a romantic man,” he said, softly.

“Liar.” Still the hand waited.

Mycroft sighed. His hand, all long spidery fingers and manicured nails, rose, and dropped into Lestrade’s. “Mine,” he whispered, reluctantly.

“Not bad for a man who’s not a romantic,” Greg said, smiling, and drew his sudden-claimed lover to his feet, and into his arms.

Greg had seen so many things, thanks to a life off the beaten way. But of all the things he had seen, he thought perhaps the rarest and best was Mycroft Holmes utterly gobsmacked after their first kiss.

He’d smiled into his partner's perfect fragility, and chuckled. “And you’re mine, yeah?”

If heaven had a single perfect metaphor, it could have been found then, at that moment, in Mycroft’s wondering eyes.

"Yours."

Wings and halos and harps had nothing to match it...and he alone had witnessed it, or ever would.


End file.
